


Romancing the Spider

by st_crispins



Series: St. Crispin's Day Society [Mature audiences] [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Danger, F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9660413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: It's always dangerous to get in bed with a black widow spider.





	

 

                       

_“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to a fly:_

_“ ‘Tis the prettiest little parlour you ever did spy.”_

_— Mary Howitt_

 

**_New York, Fall, 1965. A Friday night, 9:32 p.m_ ** **.**

            Sitting in the very heart of bourgeoisie culture — the Oak Bar of the Plaza Hotel no less — Illya Kuryakin could think of at least a dozen other places he’d rather be. Enjoying a plate of tortellini at La Beccaccia. Listening to the new combo at his favorite jazz club in the Village. Shooting a late game of billiards at Vic Alessio’s bar. Tinkering after hours in the U.N.C.L.E. lab. Stretched out on his own couch with a good book. At least, he told himself, if she’d had the good sense to choose the Carlyle for the rendezvous instead of the Plaza, he could have been listening to Bobby Short all this time. On the other hand, things could have been worse. She might have required him to meet her in the hotel’s other bar, Trader Vic’s, where he’d be surrounded by faux Polynesian decor and rich tourists, sucking up sweet drinks lousy with coconut and little umbrellas.

            He glanced at his watch: she was thirty-two minutes late. He looked at the pair of Vodka martinis neatly lined up before him like matching salt and peppershakers and shook his head. What he didn’t do for U.N.C.L.E. U.N.C.L.E., and his partner.

            _Napoleon, you will owe me for this one, and this time, I will make you pay._

            The thought of Solo prompted him to remember the two tiny yellow pills still nestled in the palm of his left hand. He uncurled his fist and stared at them. An antidote for spider venom, Napoleon had declared with a laugh. Take them with alcohol and as late as possible.

            Suddenly, a familiar voice from behind him purred, “Well, if it isn’t poor, gloomy Ivan,” and the words drilled up his spine as if he’d been touched by a live wire. Quickly, Kuryakin tossed the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a choking swig from one of the martini glasses.

            _I must be out of my mind to have agreed to this_ , he thought, but a strong blast of heavy French perfume told him there was no turning back now.

            “What are you doing here?”

            His throat still raw from the hastily swallowed liquor, Kuryakin raised his watery eyes to the new arrival and found Angelique staring down at him over the edge of her silver fox stole. A wisp of soft fur from the long trailing tail tickled his nostril, and only through sheer willpower did he avoid sneezing. Taking a moment to compose himself, he managed to say more smoothly than he expected, “Waiting for you.”

            The Thrushwoman arched an artfully plucked eyebrow. “And where’s Napoleon?”

            “At home, in bed.” Kuryakin paused for comic effect. “With the flu.”

            “I don’t know if I believe you, darling.”

            “It’s the truth.” And it was, though Kuryakin privately wondered if a 102 fever could be psychosomatically induced. But then again, Napoleon liked Angelique. Only the devil knew why.

            “He sent this as a token of his sincerest regret,” Kuryakin added, and produced one long-stem blue rose. This time, both of Angelique’s eyebrows rose in response. Obviously, she was impressed. Without an invitation, she eased her well-shaped rump into the seat next to his, her breasts thrusting toward him over the tiny round cocktail table. She took the rose, sniffed its fragrance for solace, then sighed dramatically. “Well, I suppose I must believe you now. You couldn’t possibly conceive of such a gesture on your own.”

            Another sigh leaked out of her sounding like a squeaky balloon, her well-rounded chest deflating within the low-cut black dress. She looked about the clubby wood-paneled bar as if searching for some other place to be or some other thing to do. “I am sooo disappointed, Ivan.”

            “My sympathies,” he replied evenly as he passed her the untouched martini. She took a healthy sip and asked, “So what shall we do now?”

            “I thought we were here to bargain.”

            “What are you offering?”

            “What are you selling? This meeting was your idea, remember?”

            “What will you give me for an address?”

            “That depends upon the address. If it’s the location of Thrush Central —.”

            She shot him a startled look, then settled back in her chair, mildly amused. “Oh, you are in rare form tonight, aren’t you?”

            _You have no idea_ , he thought. He’d been prepping with Napoleon for this little encounter with her all day.

            “— But we’d settle for the local satrapy.”

            Perhaps because of U.N.C.L.E.’s ubiquitous presence in the city, HQ and Thrush/New York played an elaborate and on-going game of hide and seek. Every few months, Thrush would establish a new office and a month or two later, U.N.C.L.E. would find and destroy it. They were currently in the search phase of the cycle and U.N.C.L.E. was “it.”

            Angelique chuckled, low and throaty and took another sip of her cocktail. “Sorry, darling. I may be venal, but I’m not a traitor.”

            “Not even for Napoleon?”

            “Especially for Napoleon. You must know how he feels about loyalty and integrity. What would he think of me?”

            Kuryakin didn’t answer. He wasn’t quite sure, exactly, what Napoleon thought of Angelique other than that she was one helluva lay. He waited. It was her move. She took another sip of the martini.

            “Wellll ...” she began, her cat’s eyes wandering around the bar again. What or whom she was searching for, Kuryakin could only guess. U.N.C.L.E. back up? Tattlers from Thrush? And then, maybe she was merely bored with his company.

            “... there’s a new satrap. His name is Vincent Carver. That’s for free. But the name won’t help you I’m afraid: it’s an alias.”

            Kuryakin already knew the name. Section Four had come across it in the latest dispatches intercepted from Thrush. There was no other information attached, not even a photograph.

            “What is his real name?”

            Angelique shook her head indicating that she genuinely didn’t know. Judging by Thrush’s policies, Kuryakin believed her.

            “Where does he come from?”

            Again, a shake of her platinum head.

            “What does he look like? Could you give me a physical description?”

            “He’s average height, dark, relatively handsome, incredibly arrogant and absolutely insufferable.”

            That, of course, could describe a half million men who lived in this city, including Kuryakin’s own partner.

            “Ummmm... could you be a bit more specific?”

            “Sorry, darling. Even though I find him terribly vulgar and I hate him, I certainly don’t want you to track him down. That would give the game away, wouldn’t it?”

            “Then what do you want us to do?” the Russian agent asked, trying hard to conceal his growing impatience. He was not entirely successful. Angelique toyed with the olive in her glass and, fleetingly, Kuryakin thought of himself as the olive.

            “They’ve set up this storefront to use as a supply depot,” she said finally. “Deliveries are made twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, between three and four in the afternoon.”

            “And what is contained in these deliveries?”

            “Oh, all sorts of things. You know, the usual necessities — desk blotters, paper clips, gas grenades ...”

            “Operating funds?”

            Angelique’s full lips puckered into a smirk. “Occasionally. I don’t know the specifics, but I hear they’ll be moving something very important through there in a week or so.” She popped the olive into her mouth and rolled it around, caressing it with her tongue. “Are you interested?”

            “That depends.” Though he tried, Kuryakin couldn’t keep his eyes off her mouth and that olive. When she swallowed it, the agent tried to swallow too, and found his own mouth dry as sandpaper. He reached for his drink. “Why do you want to cause problems for this Carver fellow? Is this an internal power play?”

            “Not at all. The man insulted me. I simply want revenge.”

            “Then why not bring him down yourself?”

            “Daaarling,” she sighed, exasperated. “Don’t you understand? It’s so much safer for me if you do it. Besides, I owe Napoleon a favor.”

            Solo hadn’t mentioned any favors owed, but Kuryakin did believe the revenge motive. That sounded like vintage Angelique. He tried to imagine the nature of the insult. A passing slight, no doubt. Perhaps Carver had criticized her dress or her hair — the woman was vain beyond reason — and now the Thrush chief, whomever he was, was certainly going to pay for it.

            “So I shall ask you again, dear Ivan, what are you prepared to offer me for my little indiscretion?”

            “Five thousand dollars.”

            “Hooker’s wages. This is the big-time, darling, try again. How about ten?”

            “Seven.”

            “Eight.”

            “Seven-five.”

            “That’s your final offer?”

            “Seven-five —” he paused for the briefest of moments, trying to play it right “— and me, of course. But just for the evening.”

            “You!” Angelique blinked at him, stunned for the moment, then threw her head back and shrieked with unladylike laughter, causing a few patrons’ heads to turn in their direction. Kuryakin kept an easy-going smile frozen on his face as he watched her ample bosom shake with contemptuous glee. Her laughter subsiding, she asked, “And what on earth would I possibly do with _you_?”

            “Oh, I don’t know.” He lowered his eyes modestly and cocked his head as he’d rehearsed. “I play a mean game of gin.”

            “I’ll just bet you do.”

            She laughed again, but this time, it was more controlled, more of a low trill. “This is Napoleon’s idea, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “Your friend is _so_ perverse.”

            “I wouldn’t know. He’s never shared that side of himself with me.”

            “Well, I’m certainly relieved to hear that. With all the time you two spend together, I was beginning to wonder.”

            Kuryakin could hear Solo’s voice inside his head — _Don’t let her bait you_ — so he allowed the remark to pass without comment. Now she was eyeing him slyly, calculatingly, like a shrewd buyer appraising an expensive piece of merchandise. She took a moment to consider.

            “All right. Do you have the money with you?”

            “I have the equivalent. We’re not allowed to carry that much cash.”

            “Oh, those rules and regulations again. How tiresome. Very well. You have a deal.” She held out her right hand, a diamond bracelet encasing the wrist with a big diamond nugget perched on her ring finger to match. Reluctantly, Kuryakin touched his fingertips to hers but before he could withdraw, her hand closed on his like a vise, trapping it. Then, her other hand began to pet his knuckles with long, sensuous strokes. He felt the tips of her blood-red claws graze the surface of his skin and it made him cringe, like nails on a blackboard.

            “You can tell a lot about a person by his hands,” she murmured.

            “Oh? I didn’t know that.”

            “Mmmmm. Napoleon has wonderful hands — so hard and thick and, umm, formidable.” She offered him that out-of-kilter smile he’d learned to recognize and fear.

            “And mine?”

            Tilting her head to one side, she pursed her lips thoughtfully as she studied his hand. “Rather pale and limp and a little on the thin side I’m afraid, though the length of the fingers is promising.”

            “Do you think —.” Suddenly he felt a sharp pinprick in the soft flesh just below the knuckle of his index finger. He sucked in a breath, stifling a yelp. Composing himself again, he asked with all the casualness he could muster, “What was that?”

            “Insurance, darling.”

            Kuryakin glanced down and saw a tiny spot of blood welling up from a prominent vein. A retractable needle in the ring, he realized. “Right now,” she told him, “there is a deadly chemical coursing through your body that’s heading directly for your central nervous system. Unless I administer an antidote, degeneration will begin in approximately ninety minutes.”

            “And where is this antidote now?”

            “In my room, upstairs.”

            Kuryakin drained the last of his martini and rose from his chair. “Then we’d best retire to your room, shouldn’t we?”

            “Why the rush? We have time.”

            “No. You have time. My clock is running.”

            “I do hope you perform well under pressure.”

            “Always.”

            He reached for Angelique’s chair and dragged it back, allowing her to stand. She gathered up her evening bag and retrieving the rose, tickled his cheek with it.

            “Ooooh, this is going to be interesting,” she declared, and mimed an exaggerated, anticipatory shiver. Kuryakin felt a distinctly unpleasant shiver of his own.

            “I’m quite certain of that.”

***

            He’d fallen into Thrush hands several dozen times and had even volunteered to walk into them on occasion, but he’d never experienced anything quite like this. Despite Solo’s exhaustive briefing from his sickbed earlier that day, Kuryakin had no idea what to expect. Angelique followed no rules, no code, no morality, no agenda except her own. She was inscrutable — diabolical might be a better word — a force unto herself. Even taking the anti-poison pills prophalactically did not assuage his concerns. To make matters worse, not only was he not sure of her, he was not sure of himself. Tonight, he was operating way beyond his usual arena of expertise.

            Espionage made use of a variety of weapons and sex was certainly one of them. But Victor Suslikov had counseled once, _One does what one does well_ , and Kuryakin had taken the advice to heart. So over the years, while others played at double-bedding and honey traps, Kuryakin had kept his liaisons to a minimum, spoke, dressed, and acted as unprovocatively as possible and stuck to the technical work that he knew best. And except for one time long ago when he’d had to rebuff passes from a persistent colonel with dubious sexual proclivities, the strategy had served him well.

            Despite Napoleon’s occasional teasing, Kuryakin didn’t consider himself a prude, just conventionally decent. If he was going to be intimate with a woman, he preferred it to involve at least some measure of mutual affection. He always chalked up his attitude to his good Soviet upbringing during which intimate matters had always been discussed in cold, clinical terms or not at all. Perhaps that’s why, he thought, Russians lacked the finesse of the French, the fire of the Italians, even the schoolboy naughtiness of the Brits. Only the Americans were so — what was Napoleon’s word? Ah, yes — _unsophisticated_ — and even they could muster up a characteristically gung-ho enthusiasm when necessary.

            As he followed Angelique into an otherwise deserted elevator, he wondered how he would conjure up such enthusiasm in himself. Her voluptuousness and carefully constructed glamour notwithstanding, he’d always thought he’d never find her appealing even if his life depended on it — which now, of course, it did.

            “Pass me your Special, please,” she said as the elevator doors closed.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Your gun.” He noted that she was holding her clutch bag lengthwise and level, and it seemed to be pointing in his direction. _A hidden weapon_ , he surmised.

            “You do want to survive this evening, don’t you?” she asked, mildly annoyed.

            Yes, he did. Very much. He remembered Solo’s warning: _Whatever you do, don’t piss her off_. Reluctantly, he eased his U.N.C.L.E. Special from its resting place under the left lapel of his jacket and surrendered it.

            “Sorry, dear Ivan,” she apologized, and almost sounded like she meant it. “No doubt you have other weapons tucked up your sleeves and probably sewn into your goddamn underwear for all I know, but they’ll be hard to reach and you won’t be able to surprise me.”

            “I would also like to make a request,” Kuryakin said. “If you wish me to make love to you, you’d best begin calling me by my rightful name. It’s not Ivan, or Igor or Ichabod. It’s Illya.”

            Angelique offered him her crooked smile again. “All right. Illya it is.” And then, to herself, she murmured, “Make love — how very sweet.” Pointing his own gun at him, she clicked open her evening bag with her free hand and held it out.

            “Take out the scarf.”

            His curiosity piqued, Kuryakin peered into the small purse. There, indeed, was a black silk scarf folded up next to a silver-plated .22 automatic. The automatic was poised to fire through a special slit in purse’s side. He drew out the length of silk.

            “Put it on,” she said.

            “Around my neck?”

            “No, my foolish darling. Over your eyes.”

            “I’d rather not.”

            “I know. Humor me.”

            “More insurance?” Kuryakin asked as he knotted the scarf at the back of his head. The weave was tighter than he expected and only the barest halo of light leaked through.

            “It’s a tough business and we girls are at a disadvantage. I just like to even the odds a little.”

            _More than a little_ , Kuryakin thought ruefully. He was now sightless. _This would be a good time to bail out_ , he told himself, but since he hoped to accomplish a lot more than a simple trade before the night was over, he’d have to play the game to its logical conclusion whatever the risk. He expected her to cuff his hands next but she didn’t. Instead, he heard the click of an elevator button being pushed and then a soft whirr as the car rose. He lost count of the floors but guessed they were heading toward the top of the hotel and the penthouse suites. There was nothing else to do but to stand there quietly and wait for her next move. It came soon enough. He felt her draw close, her arms roping around him, and in the next moment, her lips were on his, her tongue pushing past his teeth to give him a deep, open-mouthed kiss. As he had with everything else up to then, he obliged without resistance but without much pleasure, either. _How was he supposed to make love to this woman_? he wondered. _How could anyone?_

            “I find a helpless man intensely erotic,” she informed him, breathily. “Particularly U.N.C.L.E. agents.” He felt her hand snake down his body to caress the crotch of his trousers. “Oh, but you’re not hard yet, darling.”

            “I could perform much better if you’d take the blindfold off.”

            “Not on your life. My show, my game, my rules.”

            As Kuryakin shrugged in response, the elevator car thumped to a gentle stop and the doors whooshed open. She looped one of her arms through his and prodded the barrel of his gun against his right kidney. “This way, darling. No fuss.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

            Kuryakin pricked his ears for telltale sounds but both the room doors and the carpet were thick, so the corridor was quiet. After they walked a short way, Angelique guided him to a halt. She released him and he heard the bell-like jingle of a key slapping against the metal door lock. He heard the door open and had a vague sense that a light had been left on within. Her guiding hands returned again.

            “This way, Illya dear.”

            _So friendly, so matter-of-fact_ , he thought ruefully, and swallowed hard. Not knowing what to expect on the other side, he stepped over the threshold.

            It must have been a large room or several rooms. Despite the plush carpeting that deadened sounds, Kuryakin had a sense of space and airiness, though at the moment the suite was a little stuffy. After he took about a half dozen steps, Angelique halted him again and left him standing alone. Instead of opening a window, she turned on the air conditioner.

            “There,” she said, returning. “It’ll be better in a minute or two. I hate having to sweat during sex.”

            He couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not, and he didn’t ask. As for himself, already the back of his shirt under his jacket was soaked clear through, a fact that had nothing to do with the temperature. He listened for sounds of movement or breathing that might betray someone else’s presence, but he couldn’t hear any and he wasn’t really surprised. Angelique usually worked by herself and if there were henchmen about tonight, they must have been sent out for coffee. Small comfort, perhaps, but he was relieved to know that he and Angelique were alone in the room.

            “Take off your jacket, pet,” she said. It didn’t sound like an order, but it was. He guessed she had the gun pointed at him. Obediently, he slipped off his sport jacket and felt it drop away.

            “Give me your tie.”

            He undid the knot and tossed it in her direction.

            “Now the shirt.”

            Of necessity, the shoulder holster came first. Since it was empty, he felt no regret withdrawing his arms through the leather straps.  

As he undid the shirt buttons, he entertained the notion of jumping her. Perhaps if he moved fast and ducked low, he could knock her down and maybe knock her out. Since he’d taken the yellow pills, he wouldn’t need her antidote. He’d search her belongings for the address and escape. It’d be over in minutes and U.N.C.L.E. would be $7,500 richer. But then, he’d have to explain to Napoleon why he hadn’t planted the Caldecott information, which was the true, real purpose of this mission. Kuryakin sighed, abandoning his scenario.

            “What’s the matter darling? Bored already?”

            “Not at all. Are you?”

            “You can be sure I’ll let you know when I am.”

            His damp shirt peeled away from his body like a second skin. She took his hand and drew him forward again as if they were dancing and she was in the lead.

            “Take off your shoes and trousers,” she said, and he did. He felt the edge of a mattress bump against the backs of his calves and he guessed he was at the side of a bed.

            “The socks, too, darling. Good. And now, the shorts.”

            As he stripped off his boxers, he heard her giggle.

            “What’s the matter?”

            “Oh, nothing. It’s just that — you’re uncircumcised.”

            “Is that a problem?”

            “Of course not. It’s just that I haven’t had an uncut one in a while. Now, get on the bed.”

            Not _in_ the bed, he noted, but _on_ the bed. As in _on the rack_. He guessed what she was going to tell him to do next even before he heard the words.

            “Stretch out your arms,” she ordered. “Toward the bedposts.”        

            Against his better judgment he did, surprised to find posts there at all. Then he remembered the Plaza had French provincial furniture in its better rooms. Leave it to Angelique to find one of the few four-poster hotel beds in the entire city.

            “Is this really necessary?” he asked as a length of silk wrapped around his left wrist. Apparently, she was amply supplied with scarves. As she busied herself with the knot, an escape scenario ran, once more, through his mind. Last chance. With both of her hands occupied, she might not be able to dive for a gun in time. If he could just roll over before she finished ...

            “I told you: I adore seeing helpless men.” She inspected her work, then circled to the other side of the bed.

            “I can hardly make love to you like this.”

            As she fastened his right arm, she leaned in close to his ear and murmured, “But darling, we’re not going to make love. We’re going to fuck.”

            Automatically, he tested the bindings and found them secure. “Those are good knots,” she assured him from somewhere near the foot of the bed. “I was a Girl Scout.”

            Kuryakin grinned in spite of himself. “I find that hard to believe.”

            “Be careful. You’re in no position to be unkind.”

            He had to admit she had a point, and the situation was not improving in his favor. He’d hoped she’d leave his legs free, but when he felt her enameled claws grasp his left ankle, he realized that was just wishful thinking. After she finished the job on the right, he heard a rustle of clothing and guessed she was shedding her own.

            “So do you do this sort of thing a lot?” he asked casually, making idle conversation to cover his own embarrassment. Splayed and naked like this, almost as if he were on display, he felt terribly vulnerable and not a little foolish.

            Suddenly, she was next to him, once again leaning close. “But that’s not the real question, is it?” she crooned, wickedly. He felt her bare breast rub against his chest. “What you really want to know is: do I do this with your partner?”

            “Not particularly.”

            “Ohhh yes, you do. That’s why you came tonight. You wanted to see what it was like with me.”

            “You flatter yourself.”

            “Oh, do I now? Admit it: you were curious.”

            There was a shred of truth in what she was saying, maybe even more than a shred. Kuryakin shifted uncomfortably.

           “You’ve always been curious.”

            “No.” _Maybe._

            “I’ve seen you stare at us, Napoleon and me, when we’re together.”

            Now her hands were on him, nails skittering with an occasional click across his chest and arms, massaging the muscles, defining the contours, tracing the scars. Against his will, something stirred within him, a vague but rising sense of excitement. He remembered the chemical she’d injected him with and decided there might be a connection.

            “So moral and upright — too good to sleep with a Thrush woman. Such a virtuous little U.N.C.L.E. man. But behind that disapproving frown, you’ve always wondered, haven’t you? “

            “No.” _Yes_.

            “— Just what do they do together, anyway?”

            _She’s going to try to screw around with your mind_ , Solo had warned. _Don’t let her..._ But it was too late. A seed had been planted. He felt angry and confused, but also strangely aroused. He noted his heart rate was up; he was breathing deeper. He was also growing hard, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad of that or not.

            “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be curious?”

            He didn’t like the sound of that — not only the words, but how she said them.

            “But then, you like danger, don’t you?”

            “No.”

            “Liar.”

            She reached between his legs and grasped his swollen erection. “See, darling?” He felt her fingers pull back the foreskin and fondle the head, forcing a groan out of him.

            “And I thought they taught you discipline at that silly survival school.” She laughed harshly. “Well if they didn’t, I’ll teach you now.”

            He didn’t like the sound of that, either. Apprehension joined his arousal. He felt the mattress shift under her weight as she angled away from him. Then, something was looping around the base of his genitals, something more starched than a scarf.

            “I’m using your tie, darling. Hope you don’t mind.”

            “Angelique —.”

            “Hush, darling. I know what I’m doing.” He felt a tug, then a firm, unrelenting pressure, and realized she’d attached him to the foot rail.

            “Does this hurt?” she asked, testing the tension of the binding.

            “Only when I move.”

            “Then I suggest you don’t. Try not to think about it.”

            He knew she was joking. Tethered like this, the bittersweet ache in his groin consumed his attention so he could think of nothing else.  

            “You know, you’ve ruined ... a perfectly good ... tie,” he murmured when she came back to straddle his waist.

            “Oh, you are so vanilla. Like a great big ice cream cone.” She licked the hollow of his throat with long, rough strokes, like a cat. He felt her mouth on his chest, then her lips, then her tongue, then her teeth. She was licking him, nibbling him, sampling him, tasting him. _Black widow, indeed._ He had visions of her devouring him whole. And the odd thing was, he was fast arriving at a place where he didn’t care. Her poison, or drug, or whatever it was, sang in his veins. His skin glowed dry and incandescent hot, like a bad case of sunburn, and erotic fantasies popped into his brain with the regularity of fireworks on an American Fourth of July, one image sparking to life before the other hadn’t quite faded.

            “Who are you thinking about?” she asked between wet kisses.

            “You.”

            “Don’t lie to me —.” Her hand wrapped itself around his throbbing sex and squeezed, and he moaned through gritted teeth.

            “If you dare come before I say you can, I’ll kill you.”

            He knew she meant that literally.

            “Now tell me.” She continued to fondle him, more gently now.

            “No one you’d know.”

            “One of the office sluts?”

            “No... a girl... from back home.”

            He’d been thinking about Masha, about that month at her family’s dacha west of Yalta, about that day in the summerhouse, about what they did there. He could still remember the eyelet pattern in her white dress, the one he removed.

            “Was she pretty?”

            “Yes.”

            “Did you love her?”

            “Yes.”

            “Did you fuck her?”

            “Yes.”

            His own voice sounded distant, faraway, as if he were listening to a bad recording of himself. It was like being high on sodium pentothal: aware and not aware, awake and not awake. Angelique leaned forward and fed him her full breasts, each one in turn.

            “Was she the only one?”

            “That I’ve loved?”

            “That you fucked, darling.”

            “No, of course not.”

            “Think about the others.”

            And he did. He couldn’t help himself now. As he suckled the hard nipples that forced their way past his lips, he thought of Marion, so free, so creative, so in love with life. He hadn’t seen her in a while and he missed her. And Alice, warm and shy and snuggling close, if only for one night...

            “Now, do for me what you did for them.”

            Angelique shifted position, dragging her body along his torso, ending up with a knee on either side of his head. She lowered her crotch and his mouth was filled with her warm, moist sex. He knew what she wanted and once more, he obliged, using what he’d learned with the others and imagining them in her place. He nipped and nuzzled, tugged and licked, and apparently his technique was acceptable because she began to moan and move with a definite rhythm.

            Suddenly, he heard the sound of a small alarm going off and a burst of adrenalin flooded his system. He felt her sex retreat from his face and slide past his chin, down his chest.

            “What was that?” Kuryakin asked casually, though he could guess.

            “My watch,” she replied, just as casually. “You have five minutes left. You don’t seem to be concerned. Aren’t you afraid, darling?”

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because if you kill me, Napoleon will come after you with a vengeance, and you know that. Even if you manage to escape him, he will pursue you all over the globe, and you don’t need that kind of trouble.”

            Angelique laughed low as she continued her slow, sensuous retreat along his body. When she arrived at his erection, she pressed her thumb and forefinger around the base, just above where his tie was knotted, and drew back the skin. Then she impaled herself upon it with a long, satisfied sigh. “True, but then...”

            She began to undulate. The combination of her movements and the tug of the binding was too much. Kuryakin squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back, biting back a groan.

            “... suppose I’m out for revenge? Just suppose I intended to kill you all along?”

            “But you didn’t expect me tonight — you expected Napoleon.”

            She began to rock above him a little faster. “A small change in plans. I’m flexible. Maybe I decided this way is better.”

            “Now, it’s you who’s lying,” he said between breaths. “You wouldn’t ... plan to kill ... Napoleon.”

            “How do you know?”

            “You’re friends ...”

            Without breaking stride, she laughed out loud again, the same scornful shriek as in the bar earlier. Kuryakin felt beads of cold sweat prickle his back and melt into the sheet.

            _No. Couldn’t be. She must be teasing. She was playing head games again._

            “Did your partner tell you what happened between us in Casablanca?”

            No, Kuryakin realized, she had him there. He and Napoleon had been too busy and the affair had been routine — or so he’d been led to believe. They’d never really discussed it. He tried to remain expressionless, but she read his face anyway,

            “Ah, see? So you don’t know.” She tilted forward, her lips close to the line of his jaw. “Are you afraid now?”

            “No,” he insisted stubbornly.

            “But you should be. I just may not wait for that little injection to take effect.” He felt her teeter off-balance for a moment as if she were reaching for something. And then he felt another strand of silk glide smoothly across his throat like a water snake, and he knew what that something was.

            “Some cultures,” she began, as if she were giving a lecture, “link sex and death and rightly so. The little death — isn’t that what they call a climax? There is a sexual technique to intensify the feeling —.”

            “Nooo...” he whispered, reacting automatically as he felt the scarf loop loosely around his neck.

            “Oh, so you’ve heard of it. You’re not quite so innocent as you pretend, are you darling?”

            “Angelique, please ...”

            “Please what?” The scarf slid playfully back and forth along his neck as her body continued to rise and fall on his. Surprisingly, he hadn’t lost his erection. On the contrary, it had grown even firmer and stronger.

            _If you dare come before I say you can, I’ll kill you_ , she had warned him earlier. He didn’t doubt it. She might not even wait that long. A cool sheen of sweat slicked his skin while he trembled from the effects of the drug mixed with his own adrenalin.

            She leaned close again and asked, “Napoleon prepared you, didn’t he? He’s thought this whole thing out three ways to Sunday.”

            A brand-new chill ran through Kuryakin. _She knows_.

            “Of course I know, darling,” she said reading his mind.

            _Are you afraid?_ He was now.

            “And knowing Napoleon, I’ll bet he gave you something just in case —.”

            Kuryakin’s heart leapt.

            “ — something to trade for your life?”

            Yes, indeed, Solo had: Caldecott. “No,” the Russian agent said, making it sound like the lie it ultimately was. He had to play this just right.

            “Something for an emergency?”

            Kuryakin shook his head as he felt the scarf being knotted end over end.

            “Well, my serious friend, this is an emergency. Tell me —.”

            He hesitated, knowing he needed to stall, wondering how long he could last. When she took the bait, she had to swallow it whole.

            “Tell me.”

            “No.”

            “You have two minutes —.”

            Tortured silence. She pumped against him aggressively, forcing out another groan.

            “ — the scarf or the injection, either way you die.”

            Inside his chest, Kuryakin could feel his heart laboring hard like an old steam engine. Blood pounded in his ears, his groin ached for release, his breath came in short, almost painful gasps.

            “Ninety seconds —.”

            “All right... Caldecott.”

            “Max Caldecott? What about him?”

            “He’s ... doubling ... for UNCLE.”

            “I don’t believe you.”

            “Truth ... swear it.”

            “Why should Napoleon give him to me?”

            “Expect he’ll ... triple.”

            “Do you have proof?”

            “Yes.”

            “Give it to me.”

            “No ... you said ... trade.”

            “So I did. Very well. You may come now.”

            It happened so quickly: the scarf tightened briefly at the same moment her body bore down hard on his sex. Once, twice, he didn’t need much more. The orgasm roared through him, feeling like a bomb had detonated under the bed. He rocked against the mattress and exploded inside her, over and over again, and somewhere along the way, he felt her spasm as well, which propelled him even further. As the climax spun out, he surfed it like a wave, riding it to satiation and numb insensibility. Lying there, exhausted, his body still throbbing in the aftermath, he felt a sharp prick on the inside of his left arm and hazily realized she’d administered the antidote. Afterward, she leaned down and kissed him deeply.

            “There,” she said, easing off the blindfold. Kuryakin felt too tired to even open his eyes. “So, darling Illya, I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Where’s the information on Caldecott?”

            When Kuryakin didn’t answer right away, she warned him, “Don’t toy with me now. I could still shoot you.”

            “Roll of microfilm. In the heel of my right shoe. Squeeze the corners on the flat side.”

            While he lay there, still recovering, he heard her rummage through his clothing, locate the shoe, and click the heel open.

            “Found it,” she announced. “Oh! And here’s my seventy-five hundred dollar payment.” She joined him on the bed again and held up the diamond ring she’d found with the microfilm. She slipped it on her left hand and purred, “Does this mean we’re engaged, darling?”

            “I sincerely hope not.”

            “Oh, don’t be a poor sport. It was a good fuck, wasn’t it? Probably one of the best you’ve ever had.”

            She was right — it was — but he certainly wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of saying so.

            “Wasn’t it worth the risk?”

            “No,” he answered honestly. Nothing was worth this, except maybe the job.

            Angelique sighed regretfully. “If you want to get ahead darling, you have to learn to play the game.” She balanced a small brown envelope on his naked chest and carefully placed his U.N.C.L.E. Special next to it. “Here’s the information on the supply depot and your gun. You know, Napoleon and I have helped each other’s careers, and have had a good time doing it. As for you, my reserved Russian, it was interesting, much more than I expected.” She smiled. “For you, too, I would imagine.”

            She leaned down for the last time and offered him one deep, farewell kiss. “But next time,” she added with a nasty gleam in her eye, “I’ll bring more equipment.”

            Chortling with laughter at her own joke, Angelique abandoned the bed, gathered up her things, and headed toward the door.

            “Wait!” Kuryakin called from the bed, “You forgot —.”

            But it was too late. He was still bound to the bedposts as the door slammed shut solidly behind her.

            Kuryakin muttered a Slavic curse. Knowing Angelique, she’d probably order room service on her way past the lobby desk, just on a whim. Well, if he didn’t want to be discovered like this by some poor, unsuspecting bellhop, he’d best get to work. Resigned, he flexed his right wrist, an action, which popped a secret catch in the watch he wore to expose a hidden strip of razor blade. Then, mustering what little strength he had left, he angled his arm and began to saw through the black silk scarf.

 

                                       ***

**_New York: U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Three days later_ ** _._

           

“Here’s your wristwatch back,” Illya Kuryakin said, as he set it down in the one clear space on Solo’s desk. “It was very useful. Thank you.”

            Piles of paperwork, some of them neat and some not, were stacked all around. Although he’d been back since yesterday, Solo still looked a little under the weather. Kuryakin didn’t covet his partner’s position as Chief of Enforcement and it was at times like this he was reminded why. “And by the way, you owe me for a tie.”

            “What happened to it?” Solo asked without looking up.

            “I’d rather not say.”

            Solo shrugged. “I’ll put it on my expense account. Did you have trouble selling her Caldecott?”

            “No, it went just about as we’d planned.” Kuryakin glanced over his friend’s shoulder as Solo continued to scribble his name in several places on one yellow, neatly typed, triplicate form after another.

            “Did someone blow up a building?” Kuryakin asked casually, counting the cases of excusable homicide.

            “Several buildings,” Solo said wearily. He changed the subject. “I knew Angelique couldn’t resist. Caldecott’s her rival in the Eastern sector and they’ll both be up for the same position at the end of the year.”

            _Napoleon and I have helped each other’s career._

            Kuryakin considered. Then, rather gingerly, he asked, “Ummm... did Waverly know about this clever operation of yours?”

            “Of course.” Solo leaned back in his office chair. “It was his idea.”

            “Because he believed Max Caldecott would triple us?”

            “Triple?” Solo chuckled. “Caldecott wasn’t even doubling. He was just making a nuisance of himself in the South, and the Old Man felt it was time to take the guy down.”

            “But the evidence on the microfilm —?”

            “All false, created by our colleagues in Section Four, but it’ll pass under reasonable scrutiny.”

            “You set her up,” Kuryakin declared as it dawned on him.

            “Just utilized her a little. Sorry I couldn’t give you all the details earlier —”

            “I understand,” Illya said, dismissing his friend’s apology with a wave of his hand. Under stress, telling the truth — or what one believed was the truth — was always easier, and one could only manage so many lies.

            “If the stuff on the microfilm passes, Caldecott will be eliminated and Angelique will be sitting pretty when promotion time comes.”

            “And if it doesn’t pass —?”

            “She can take care of herself.” Solo eyed his partner slyly. “I’ll bet she took care of you.”

            “It was interesting,” Kuryakin conceded.

            “Scared the hell out of you, didn’t she?”

            Kuryakin raised an indignant eyebrow. “And she doesn’t scare you?”

            “Not since Betty Kravitz.”

            “I beg your pardon? Who?”

            “Betty Kravitz.” Solo was grinning like a Cheshire cat, very much pleased with himself. “That’s her real name. I found out a couple of years ago. Betty Kravitz from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And every time I look at her, I think ‘Betty Kravitz’ and she’s doesn’t seem quite so dangerous.”

            “But she carries a French passport.”

            Solo snorted derisively. “She’s about as French as bottled salad dressing. Those diamonds might be real, but Angelique is all glass and pasteboard. Just like that drug of hers. Did she hit you with it?”

            Kuryakin nodded. “As you predicted she would. This time, it was in her ring.”

            Solo clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Well, no matter. It’s not really as fatal as she leads you to believe. One time, I managed to get away quick enough and had the local U.N.C.L.E. lab take a blood sample. It does irritate the nervous system, but without the antidote, the worst you’ll suffer is a God-awful migraine.” He shook his head. “Leaves a lousy sour lemon aftertaste, too.”

            “I didn’t taste any lemon. Actually, it was rather sweet.”

            Solo cocked his head at his partner. “Oh?” He paused. “Sweet, you say? Really. Hmmm.” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he returned back to his work.

            _Bozhye Moy!_ Kuryakin thought to himself and shivered. He wondered how close a call he’d actually had. He started to leave, then stopped at the open door. “One more thing, Napoleon.”

            “What’s that?”

            “What happened with you and Angelique in Casablanca?”

            Solo shrugged again, genuinely at a loss. “She was there on personal business — didn’t concern U.N.C.L.E. We met, did a little sightseeing together, had dinner. Then we went to bed. Nothing unusual, why?”

            “No reason. You and I just never discussed it.”

            “Probably we were too busy at the time and it slipped by.”

            “Probably.” Kuryakin doubted that any encounter with Angelique could ever be termed “nothing unusual” and he resolved, then and there, never to be alone with the woman again. And he never was. Still, a question remained, and even though he hated to, Illya just had to ask it.

            “Napoleon?”

            “Mmmm?”

            “How can you go to bed with her?”

            Solo glanced up from his paperwork. “I enjoy it,” he replied simply.

            “But she’s so — ummm — unpredictable.”

            “That’s what makes it fun.”

            Solo smiled and for the rest of his life, the Russian agent would always remember that particular smile. He never asked about Angelique again. There were some topics that Illya Kuryakin had no wish to explore, not only because of what they might tell him about the dark corners of his partner’s psyche, but also because of what he might discover in his own.

 

 

 


End file.
